On the Watercourse
by Rabirhek
Summary: Spoilers for 6x18, "Lauren". The BAU team tries to adjust. Team-fic with slight focus on Hotch.
1. What Changes, What Remains the Same

_"Thou who dost dwell and linger here below__  
__Since the condition of this world is frail__  
__Where of all plants afflictions soonest grow__  
__If troubles overtake thee, do not wail__  
__For who can look for lesse, that loveth life/strife?"_

- George Herbert, _The Water-course_

**Part I**

It's been two weeks since Emily's funeral. The BAU team tries to adjust. Tries to cope. To function.

But they're broken to pieces.

/

Morgan rarely sits at the bullpen anymore. If he does, he'll keep expecting Prentiss to be there, two desks across from his, working on her paperwork. He'll expect to hear her occasional grumbles as she's filling out - as she _used to_ fill out reports. When Morgan gets up to get some lunch, he'll start asking if she wants anything, and will stop dead when he remembers.

She's not there anymore.  
**  
**No more of her witty remarks, her playful banter... her solid presence that, as Morgan only now comes to realize, gave him comfort.

Emily's not there, and Morgan can't stand being left behind. So he keeps to his small, windowless office, hiding behind bleak walls and trying not to think. Just to function.

He can't go on being the same person that he's been until fifteen days ago. His partner's not there anymore to have his back. When he's out of this gloomy office room, he's exposed. Alone in the field.

So he hides, and acts like somebody else.

Like someone who hasn't lost his Prentiss.

/

When Reid walks into the bullpen area every morning, he never looks at anywhere but his desk. Until he reaches it, his gaze doesn't waver, and it never, ever slides through Emily's (old) desk. He knows that it's empty. Seaver sits at the one across from it, but Emily's desk is unoccupied, untouched. A thin layer of dust now covers everything that's haphazarly left on it, because no one dares to touch the pieces she's left behind.

So Reid never looks at her desk, knowing that he won't be able to stand seeing someone else occupy it. He also knows that he needn't worry. That won't happen anytime soon.

But once he sits at his own corner, Reid does look up to see Hotch's shadowy silhouette behind the blinds of his office. Then, his eyes move sideways and make sure that Rossi's door is open. And he turns in on himself, but always, _always_, his gaze steers to Morgan's desk, just at his left, and it's empty.

And Reid swallows, watching the absence for a moment, and thinking, not a little angrily, that he wants an office as well.

Without Emily, he feels utterly alone.

Without Morgan, he feels utterly out of place.

Everyday since the funeral, he's considers asking for some time off. Everyday, he dismisses the idea, because he can't _not_work.

So he does the only thing that he can: he doesn't read at lightening speed anymore. He takes on all the paperwork he can find, and he works through them. Everyday, he stretches it as long as he can.

And he lives like someone else, someone who can't read thousands of words in a minute.

Like someone who hasn't lost his Emily.

/

There hasn't been many instances in Agent Hotchner's life where he could not meet someone's gaze.

He doesn't make promises he can't keep. In those rare occasions when he lets someone down, he's still strong enough to meet their eyes. He lets them to see guilt, the regret, the sadness inside. He doesn't turn away. Doesn't hide.

The only person whom he'd been unable to look in the eye is Haley. Because Haley was the only person to whom he could let his weakness show. And because she could always profile him, better than _he_ could profile anyone, no matter how weak or strong he was.

Haley's gone now. There's no one he can be weak around.

And yet he paces absently in his office, door closed, files in his hands, and he's alone, because mustering the courage to face someone hasn't been this difficult since Haley's gone. He avoids facing his team. He doesn't look at them when he speaks. And he hides behind the cover of grief; and feels all the more guilty for it.

Grief that he can spare his team from, but he won't.

He _is_ strong enough to do this. He is strong enough to let them suffer.

That's why he remains alone.

/

When it's Seaver of all people to knock on his office door, Hotch breaths out a silent sigh of relief. He's used to keeping secrets. But none has been so close to the surface, trying so violently to be let out. He's afraid that if he meets his teammates' gaze, they'll see right through him.

When the trainee agent reluctantly enters his office late in the evening, Hotch looks up at her with his intense, unwavering gaze. Seaver's pain isn't comparable to theirs. It bothers Hotch little to keep the truth from her.

When she takes a seat across from his desk and asks to be transferred to another unit, he isn't surprised.

"May I ask why?" he still asks, watching her from under his deep frown. Seaver squints under his gaze.

"I've learned a lot during my time here, Sir," she replies steadily, but she's looking at anywhere but him. "It's just that - I figure Agent Rossi would be too busy to be my training agent."

It's a clumsy way of saying '_my training agent's dead and I can't ask the only other person who'd take over her role to do it.'_

"I'm sure we can arrange something," Hotch offers, not particularly sure why he's bothering, but he does, anyway. "Teamwork is learned by training with a team; Morgan can help you out in the field and Reid can train you about profiling."

"I - I don't think that's a good idea," Seaver replies, shaking her head.

Keeping her under his intense stare for another long moment, Hotch finally nods. He knows why she's asking this. He knows that he can't fairly expect Morgan or Reid to turn their attention to training a cadet. And he knows that, caught in the midst of a grieving family, Seaver feels like she's intruding upon something private.

In a way, Hotch thinks, she is.

He nods, tells her that he'll take care of it, and dismisses her.

He hasn't seen any exceptional potential in Seaver. He hasn't seen the enthusiasm, or the will to be a part of this team. If he had, he would've kept her. Like he had kept Prentiss.

He remembers her application to join to team, such a long time ago. He had actually joked that she'd been waiting for his return in the office for the last four days. He remembers how she had thrown him her profile of the unsub in a pending case. How she had literally forced him to give her a chance.

He smiles at the memory.

If Prentiss were there, she could bring out a gem out of Seaver. But she isn't, and Hotch has no idea where she is.

With a sigh, he pulls out Seaver's personnel file, and writes himself a memo to ask Dave, Morgan and Reid to put in some words for her.

He tries not to think of absent comments, and the pain he'll see in his friends' eyes.

Hotch stays strong.

He remains himself.


	2. Secrets Kept and Dismissed

**Part II - Secrets Kept and Dismissed  
**  
When Hotch receives the call on his way to dropping Jack to school, he almost looses control of the black sedan he's using. His stomach flips like it hasn't done since Haley's death, and that's what actually catches him off-guard; not the fact that it's a nurse calling from a hospital about an Agent Spencer Reid whose been admitted thirty minutes ago with an intense headache. It's the white-hot terror of getting more bad news, so soon after Prentiss's funeral, that leashes at him like a whip.

The gist of the call is that Agent Reid had been sedated, but at the moment, there's nothing to indicate that it's more than a bad headache. He's resting, and if the tests come back clear, he can be discharged in a few hours.

Hotch's bodily functions turn back to almost-normal as he thanks the nurse and hangs up the phone, but the slightest bit of tremor lingers a little longer in his fingers.

"Daddy wha's wrong?" Jack asks from his place at the back seat, and instinctively, Hotch's fingers once again tighten around the wheel.

"It's a nurse from the hospital," he replies truthfully. He never lies to Jack. He doesn't keep secrets from his son. And he won't start keeping them after all that's happened with Prentiss.

"You remember my friend Reid?"

"He's ve-ery tall," Jack acknowledges, nodding fervently.

"Yes, he is," Hotch agrees. "The nurse said that he's sick and he's in the hospital."

A pause, and then-

"Are you go'on to visit him, Daddy?"

"Yes, buddy; after I drop you off to school, I'll go to see him."

"Is he sick because he's sad?" Jack asks next. "Like I was sick when mommy died?"

For a second, Hotch feels like his stomach has vanished.

It's one of those questions Jack asks that perplex his father. Perplex him, confuse him, throw him off; and make him proud at the same time, because they're the difficult questions, the ones he has to contemplate before answering, not to figure out how to give him the answer, but to figure out the answer itself.

_Is_ Reid sick because he's sad?

Hotch has no idea, but something in him tells him that it's the affirmative. "I really don't know, Jack," he answers truthfully.

He likes it when the truthful answer is also evasive in nature.

"Give him a hug for me," Jack demands. Hotch mock-glares at his son from the rear mirror, lips twitching at the request despite the worry that's gnawing at him.

"How about I tell him that you're sending him hugs?"

In the back seat, Jack flashes a mischievious grin at his dad, and Hotch laughs, and he marvels,_again,_ at how incredibly smart his son is.

He winks at him, and they don't speak anymore until they reach the school.

/

When his cell phone starts buzzing and it's Hotch's name on the screen, Morgan isn't surprised. Normally, he should be; because Hotch is always at work at this hour and it doesn't make sense for him to call Morgan when his office is just a few doors down from that of his own.

Today, he just doesn't bother being surprised.

"Morgan," he answers unenthusiastically, and listens. And he sits up higher and higher with each word that Hotch speaks. He's saying he's gotten a phone call; he's saying Reid's in the hospital and he's unconscious; and he's saying something about being detained, some shooting somewhere, but as soon as Morgan's heard the name of the hospital, he's stopped listening.

Twenty minutes later he's standing still at the door of a private hospital room, scared out of his mind for the second time in the three weeks, and he feels like being sick. He has no recollection of leaving the BAU or driving to the hospital. All he can think of is funerals.

The low buzz that seems to emanate from the building itself is mocking bagpipes.

On the lone bed lies Reid, head slightly tilted to one side, an ugly blanket half-covering him, and frankly, he doesn't look hurt. He just looks asleep. Morgan's eyes travel to his midsection, and there's nothing there, but he sees Emily's fit body and the bloody piece of wood impailed into her flesh.

Bile rises in his throat, and he turns away from the room. Leaning against the wall, he takes deep, calculated breaths, pushing down the agitation.

The nurse he's just talked to has informed him that Reid's landlady had gotten suspicious when she saw him in pain in the elevator they took together, and called 911. When they brought him in, he seemed to be having a violent headache; they scanned an MR, and everything looks normal.

He should wake up soon.

In all fairness, Morgan thinks, it's not nearly as worrisome as having your impailed partner's blood on your hands. But in his heart, he's just as much worried about Reid as he'd been about Emily.

Taking a deep breath, he walks back into the room, and lowers himself on the horribly old-fashioned, low armchair across the bed.

And he waits.

Tries not to think of Prentiss. Tries not to feel her absence beside him.

He sits, and waits, and swears to himself that as soon as Reid comes around, he'll have the kid speak with him.

He wants to know _everything_.


	3. Other Goodbyes

_**A/N:** First of all, thank you very much to everyone for the reviews. They're much appreciated._

_Secondly, I have to make a request from the reader. The character Ashley Seaver is cause for quite heated discussions among CM fans; that is a fact. For me, like for many people, fanfiction is "therapy". Therefore, I respectfully ask the reader to please not leave a review just to discuss your opinion of Ashley Seaver. There are hundreds of discussion forums for that, and that is not why I'm writing or publishing these stories. That being said, any comments about whether my presentation of the character is realistic and/or in-character are of course welcome._

_Thank you for reading this disclaimer, and if you're still continuing, I hope you enjoy this chapter, whether you like Ashley Seaver or not._

* * *

**Part III - Other 'Goodbye's**

When the soft, almost inaudible knock on her door comes, "Come in," Garcia calls, her voice a mere shadow of its usual color. No one has actually come to her office in nearly a month, but Penelope isn't even aware of this. She likes the company of her computers. She's always liked being surrounded by the screens, taking comfort in her confidence that within this room, everything's under control. And right now, Penelope needs that confidence more than anything.

She sees that no one has been able to look at each other in the eye since the funeral. She sees the way Reid walks straight to his desk everyday, without having anyone to say 'good morning' to -because Seaver always comes later than him- and dive into work. She sees that Derek can't touch her anymore, or call her anything but 'Garcia'. She sees that Rossi never steps out of his office when he's in the BAU, and that Hotch looks like he's lost his wife all over again.

She sees that her family is falling apart and she despairs, because she can't find the strenght to do anything about it. She's aware that she's only one who's accepted what's happened and who's trying to get used to it, though she doesn't know _why_. Each of her numerous screens show a different photograph now, all of Emily. One with Reid and Morgan, one with JJ, a couple with herself and Morgan or Reid, even one with Hotch and Rossi. She likes the one of them all together best.

That's what Penelope wants to hold on to. She wants to keep her friend close.

"Garcia, are you okay?"

She turns around at Seaver's soft, hesitant voice, and blinks. "Ashley. Did you need something?"

"I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Penelope repeats, the cruel word tinkling uncomfortably in her ears.

"Yeah. I'm being transferred to another unit to continue my training with."

"Oh."

The news doesn't affect Garcia nearly as much as the "goodbye" does.

"Yeah, well," Seaver mutters. "Thank you. It's been really fun working with you; I really enjoyed your company."

Garcia can easily recall that there's only been two or three times at most that they've worked alone together, but she's not going to point that out. She just nods.

"Good luck with everything. You can always come visit us if you want."

Seaver nods, smiles a bit, and leaves.

And Penelope doesn't feel too bad about it, and she's almost glad she doesn't.

She's dealing with a much harder goodbye.

/

Dave is staring off at a random spot when Ashley walks into his office. He's got his cell phone in his palm, and a slight frown is creasing his forehead.

"Everything all right?" Ashley asks. She can ask Rossi this question genuinely, and she'll miss that. Rossi's the only one in this team with whom she's felt really comfortable.

And Prentiss. But she's not there anymore.

"I need you to come to a crime scene with me," Rossi announces suddenly, pushing his chair and standing up. Ashley blinks.

"Agent Hotchner's already signed me out; I'm not training with this team anymore."

"I know that," Rossi counters curtly. "There's been a shooting downtown; Hotch's already headed there. We're stretched thin; I need you in the field."

He pauses, throwing her a quick glance as he pulls out a drawer and fishes for things, and Ashley thinks that he's aged ten years in the last two weeks.

"Reid and Morgan are - detained," he adds, voice suddenly clipped. "It's just me and Hotch. We can use an extra pair of eyes, while you're still here."

Ashley notices that she's just been referred to as an extra, but that's not what gets at her. It's the way Rossi's tone is guarded, the way he doesn't look at her while speaking, and the way _something _about him tells her that he simply doesn't want to go alone.

So she doesn't argue. The least she can do for him is to be there.

She nods, and follows him out of the office.

She pushes down the shameful feeling of satisfaction at being needed, and instead, thinks that if she can read Rossi's feelings from his behavior, her days with this team have actually paid off. Of course it may very well be because he's someone she knows, not a stranger, not a suspect. But she prefers to think otherwise.

Silently, she sends a prayer that wherever her soul is, Prentiss is happy.


	4. A Different Kind of Interrogation

_**A/N:** Just a few more chapters left to go. I don't want to drag this one too long. :)_

* * *

When Morgan notices the slight movement from the bed, it's already been three hours since he's arrived at the hospital. He has no idea where the hours have gone, and he feels guilty for it, because instead of worrying sick about the kid, he's been lost in thoughts about Emily.

He looks up in his seat, fixing his gaze on Reid, and waits.

When Reid's eyelids flutter and he comes around with a sigh, Morgan doesn't stand up from the armchair.

Reid's gaze falls directly on him. "Morgan?" he croacks, voice heavy with sleep, edged with exhaustion. He looks around and pulls himself up to a sitting position.

"What happened?" he asks.

Morgan stares.

A familiar feeling of fury ignites at the pit of his stomach - that deceitful, sneaky anger which resides hidden somewhere deep within, ready to blaze unprovoked ever since the funeral - and words pile up in his throat.

Reid notices it -of course he notices it- and he looks frightened.

"Morgan?"

"What the hell is going on, Reid?" Morgan demands.

"What's -"

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

A little voice is screaming at the back of his mind -_this is stupid, what's there to indicate that this has happened before?_- but Reid sure as hell has to answer to him if he's been keeping secrets, because he has no right to keep secrets from Morgan; he has no right after so many years of friendship, so many occasions in which Morgan's been there for him, helped him, trusted him; he has no right-

"Morgan, how did I get here?"

And the way the kid asks the question -the confusion, the tiredness in his gaunt face- deflates that unreasonable feeling. He sighs, and runs a hand through his head.

"Your landlady's called 911 when she saw you in the elevator," he says tiredly. "The nurse said you were having a headache." He pauses. "Want to talk about it?"

"I - yeah," Reid replies, eyes turning to his lap. "I woke up with a bad headache and it just... got worse."

"They said your MR looks clean," Morgan informs him. He means to say that it's good news. He means to say there's nothing wrong with him.

But then he realizes that this may very well be about stress... about Emily, and it doesn't feel like good news anymore.

"Kid, talk to me," he says. It's a mantra between them. It's easy to confide in the predictibility.

A pause, and then, "What's there to talk about, really?" Reid mutters. But something is wrong, because Reid's said it like he's talking to someone who's not there.

"Reid?"

Reid shrugs sligtly, and leaves it at that. Morgan finally rises from the chair and walks to him.

"I don't want to push you, kid," he says quietly. "You know I'm always here. I'm always here," he repeats, to make sure Reid knows it. What he means to say is that he needs Reid to confide in him. He needs to know that he's still Reid's best friend. He needs to know that Reid won't do what Prentiss did.

In his heart, at the core, it's all Morgan wants to make sure he won't lose Reid, too.

He gives the kid's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and walks out to find the doctor.

/

The shooting downtown quickly turns out to be related to an open investigation overseen by the local police department. Hotch is undeniably relieved when it quickly becomes clear that BAU isn't needed. In all honestly, he has no idea with which team he could possibly take on the case - with Prentiss gone, and Reid and Morgan at the hospital, it's only himself, Dave and Seaver on the scene. He knows that somehow he'd have figured out a way to get the work done, but he's glad he didn't have to try.

Mere minutes after they return to the headquarters, Morgan calls to inform him that Reid's fine and he's returning to work after dropping Reid home. Hotch is simply glad that Morgan is there for Reid. He knows that the two of them and Garcia will help each other with this. He knows that much.

He also knows that it is him who needs to be there for Dave.

The dead look in David Rossi's eyes is what breaks Hotch's resolution to not have this conversation with any of them. The older profiler is leaning against the railing lining the catwalk, staring at the deserted desks where once a trio of profilers sat together. The golden chain that he likes to play with when he's thinking is being kneaded hypnotically between his fingers.

Silently, Hotch walks out of his office and takes a place next to him. Dave takes a deep breath as he straightens his back.

"'Am I naive to wish that lying is never the right thing to do?*" he mutters through the bullpen area, like he's quoting a line from a book. He looks at Hotch with a sigh. "Emily's asked me that once."

"What did you say?"

"What do you think?" Dave questions with a humorless snort.

"Something about this job..?"

Dave mock-glares at him. "You're being too much of a profiler, Aaron; it'll get you in trouble someday."

It's Hotch's turn to snort.

"And then she said," Dave continues, "that sometimes, our job sucks."

"I wouldn't disagree," Hotch mutters heartily. Dave leans back on the railing again, and Hotch mimics the motion.

"It never gets easier," Dave muses slowly. "On the one hand, you want to be angry at the fact that you get used to anything in this job. You'd think _that's_ saying something. But it never gets easier to lose a colleague, a friend."

"You know that if it starts to get easier... you're becoming more of an unsub than a profiler."

"So you can't be angry about it, or say that then it's a good thing."

"You can't _say_ it," Hotch states pointedly. Saying it aloud eradicates the sentiment.

Dave seems to think over it for a moment. "How long has it been since we've had one of these discussions?" he asks lightly.

"I don't know," Hotch sighs with a smile. "Months... years."

"Well," Rossi says, "Good to see that quality's not dropped."

"Quality's dropped well if you think this was a discussion at all."

"You're not seriously teasing me, are you?"

"I'm not. I'm just making a point."

"Sneaky bastard," Dave mumbles, and Hotch chuckles outright. Their eyes simultaneously turn to the bullpen again.

"We've lost a damn fine friend," Rossi mutters sadly.

"And a damn fine agent," Hotch agrees. He gently pats Dave on the shoulder, and returns to his office.

It's a wonder why he doesn't feel like a hypocrite.

* * *

*Emily Prentiss, Episode 4x24, _Amplification_


	5. Between Brothers

_**A/N:**__ Firstly, thank you all very much for the sincere reviews. Reviews mean even more to a writer when the story is written because it needs to be written, and this is how this one is being put out. So again, I appreciate each review very much. Thank you._

_Secondly.. fast updates! I know. It's just that I find it near-impossible to keep focused on fanfiction while the show is going on, so I'm in a rare frenzy while we're having a one-week break from new episodes. I'm thinking there's two more chapters left, and they'll probably be posted in the next two days as well__. And then, through the weekend, a one- or two-shot, just maybe, about Emily._

_This chapter, I'm afraid, is really long, really heavy, all dialogue, all angst. Maybe even a bit on the melodramatic side. I'm seriously afraid that half way through, it may begin to feel like a story unable to give its last breath. But I have no excuses. These guys really needed this long conversation, and it didn't feel fair to pull the reins. I just let them let it all out. So maybe you'd like to have a cup of tea as you read this, or maybe take a little break when you start to feel like drowning in it? *Lol* Joking aside... I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. And I hope you leave a comment and let me know what you think._

* * *

Only two days later, Morgan finds Reid throwing up in men's restroom, and he snaps. But it's not with fury anymore. It's with simple worry.

"Dammit, kid; what's wrong?" he asks, just short of shouting as he holds Reid's hacking body upright. His voice shakes badly and he's hit by terrible sense of _dejà-vu_; he holds the kid straight and knows that Reid's right there, solid and substantial, but it doesn't feel like it and Morgan hates that. He consciously puts up walls in his mind to prevent thinking about Prentiss. And he manages it, and it's a good thing, because Reid needs him.

Morgan helps him as the kid lowers himself down on the floor, his breathing echoing off the tiled walls. Reid pulls his knees to his chest and his head drops to his palms. He's slightly rocking back and forth, and Morgan knows that something is seriously wrong and it is sheer panic that threatens to get hold of him. But training and experience -and his inner resolution- kicks in, and he pushes the fear down and focuses. When he speaks, he sounds as solid as ever, and it gives him back all of his confidence.

"Kid, what can I do to help?"

"Nothing," Reid breathes out, palms pressed onto his brow. "Nothing," he repeats quietly, "it'll pass."

But Morgan can't do nothing. He rises to his feet.

"I'll bring some ice," he declares, walking hastily out of the restroom. He has to do something.

When he returns with an icebag he's grabbed from the sixth floor medicine cabinet, Reid is still crouched in the same position.

"Here," he says, offering the icebag, and Reid takes it and gingerly applies it to his forehead. His entire body is tense with pain.

Without another word, Morgan slides down on the floor next to him, and keeps the kid company. That unpredictible anger within him has now turned into a smoking pile of ash, and as he sits there on the cold floor tiles, with his friend silently suffering next to him, Morgan feels its bitter taste at the back of his mouth.

"I don't know how to do this, Morgan," Reid says suddenly. His voice is soft, feathery, like he's wishing for the sentiment to dissolve into the air. He's still looking down at his lap, the icebag in his loose fingers.

Morgan just looks at him, and waits.

"I know how to be angry," Reid confides quietly, and this time, words come out difficultly from his lips. "But I don't know how to do this."

"You're not angry," Morgan clarifies. It's a statement with a hint of uncertainty.

"No."

"It's a good thing, Reid," Morgan says. He chuckles helplessly, head resting back against the freezing wall. "Believe me; it's a good thing."

"No, it's not," Reid argues. "I've been... angry at people for walking away; because they chose to walk away instead of staying, and I learned how to deal with that, but Em-"

He stops abruptly like he's just said a foul word, and after a beat, he breathes out in defeat.

"She didn't walk away by choice," Derek quietly completes the sentence for him. But he can't help it; he sounds sceptical. "You don't think she chose to walk away?" He pauses. "If you ask me, that's exactly what she did," he confesses bitterly.

"No, she didn't," Reid counters, shaking his head ever so slightly. "She never meant to leave us; she was going to deal with Doyle and come back. She didn't walk out on us just to... just to walk away." He hangs his head a bit further down. "She's just done it again," he continues, and Morgan can see the ghost of a humorless smile creasing the corner of his lips. "Just like she'd said."

"What'd she say?"

"On the jet; after we got out of the compound in Colorado.. she'd said that what she'd done there-" He trails off, leaving the sentence incomplete and looks up at Morgan. "Did you know that she only admitted to being an agent because Cyrus was holding a gun to my head?"

Morgan hadn't known. "She had?" he asks, heart full of pride and appreciation for his lost partner. Reid shrugs.

"On the jet, she said that what she did was her own choice, and that she would do it again." He swallows. "So she did it again. Gave herself up for us - and -"

"Reid," Morgan breathes, his voice breaking ever so slightly, because now he knows what Reid is trying to deal with. He's battling with that all-consuming feeling of helplessness. "She only walked away to protect us, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it," he says.

"You were there," Reid argues feebly, and Morgan doesn't miss the hint of accusation in his voice. Resentment. Jealousy. Envy. It's only barely perceptible, Morgan doesn't think even Reid is aware of it, but it's there. "You were with her," Reid continues, "You held her hand - I saw the blood on your fingers. I didn't - I'd just told her and I knew she wouldn't tell anyone but now she's _dead _and she won't ever tell anyone anything -"

That's when Morgan can't take it anymore. He doesn't have the slightest idea what Reid is talking about, but he pushes away that question mark, and he does what he has never done before, not once in all the years he has known Reid.

He hugs him.

It's brief and quick, rather clumsy because they're still sitting side by side on the restroom floor, with their backs against the wall, but it's good. It's good for both of them.

Reid quickly wipes away the few tear-trails from his face.

Morgan doesn't wipe away the tears brimmed in his eyes.

"Why is it so difficult to accept that I couldn't have done anything to help?" Reid asks into the silence.

"Because that's the kind of person you are," Morgan offers. He looks at him for a moment. "You're thinking about Elle, aren't you?"

A dry laugh shakes Reid's shoulders slightly. "Elle, my father, Gideon... You'd think I'd have learned by now that them going away isn't about me. I couldn't have changed anything."

"You couldn't have-"

"I _know,_ Morgan. But I still feel like it. I guess I'll always feel like it."

With a wince, he brings his hand up and massages his forehead. Morgan is tempted to ask, but something tells him to wait, and he obeys it.

"I didn't keep it a secret," Reid says suddenly. To Morgan, it sounds oddly like a confession. A distant plea for understanding. A compromise for redemption. "I told Emily. It was... it was the last time I spoke with her; morning of the day she disappeared. I told her about the headaches, and - and she promised not to tell anyone."

He says the last part with a veiled shame, like he knows that his concession of the secret is cancelled out by this revelation; and Morgan doesn't know what to make of it. But he doesn't ask why Reid wanted Prentiss to keep it a secret. He knows the reason very well, and he can't be angry at Reid for being himself.

So instead of reprimanding him, he takes a different approach.

"Will you tell _me_ what these headaches are about?"

Reid looks at him with dead eyes. "Do you promise not to die?"

The bitterness of his voice burns the air like acid droplets.

"No," Morgan replies, his smile matching Reid's tone. "But I can promise not to take it to my grave."

"Fair enough, I guess," Reid concedes with a sigh. "They started a few months ago. Out of the blue. I saw, like five doctors; each of them said the same thing. There doesn't seem to be any physical cause for them."

Morgan nods. "They think it's psycho-sematic."

"Yeah. It's funny; as soon as I tell them that I work with the FBI, they suggest that the most likely cause is stress."

"Like they have any idea what kind of stress we deal with," Morgan mocks, rolling his eyes. It makes Reid snort, but Morgan sobers up again quickly. "You don't think that's the reason?"

"I don't know. If it's just stress... I can deal with that. There's nothing else to indicate otherwise, so I'm hoping it's just migranes. I can deal with migranes."

_'I can't deal with a mental cause'_ is what he leaves unvoiced, but Morgan already knows that.

"Did any of the doctors prescribe medication?"

"I asked them not to," Reid replies with a shrug. Morgan also knows the underlying explanation.

"So what do you do?" he asks with a frown. "Wait for it to pass?"

"They don't last for too long," Reid says softly. He looks up at Morgan and tries to smile as he scrambles to his feet. "It's not that bad. Could be much worse."

"Yeah," Morgan allows, although thoroughly unconvinced. "I guess."

He stands up on numbed legs, and carefully looks at Reid from under a frown.

"You sure you're better?"

"My head's a lot better," Reid replies.

"Good," Morgan says. "'Cause I'm telling you, if we sat on this damn floor any longer, we'd both get a hell of a stomach ache tonight."

Reid chuckles.

"Morgan, do you think..."

"What?"

"Do you think you could maybe... come back to work at the bullpen area?"

It is one of those moments when Morgan wants to smack the back of his own head for not thinking about something sooner. He nods heavily.

"Of course, kid."

"Thanks, Morgan," Reid whispers, shuffling his feet a bit, and for a moment, Morgan sees the awkward kid that Reid was all those years ago, when he had just joined the team. He marvels, again, at how much has changed since he's known Reid. And how much has miraculously remained the same.

Though it doesn't seem like it, Morgan knows that Reid gives him as much as he gives Reid. And he knows that even if all the people he'd ever known were to walk out of his life, Reid is the one person who would stay.

"Thank you, kid," he says softly. "Now let's get the hell out of there."

They walk out of the cold room together.


	6. The Warrioress

_**A/N:**__ Once again, thank you all who took the time to comment on the story. I tried to individually respond to each review but I know some of them slipped, so if you didn't get a response, please do know__that I'm deeply thankful for your nice comments._

_S__orry about the belatedness of this chapter. Life happened since last week. __Unlike the previous chapter, this one's more prose than dialogue, but I do hope it's a good narration. I hope you think so and share your thoughts with me._

___**Warning:** Mild violent imagery_

* * *

**Part VI - The Warrioress**

It hasn't been a full month since the funeral. It still feels like Emily's on one of those rare vacations that she takes.

It is the first of April.

The sun is bright and the weather warm; a soft spring breeze ruffles the leaves, and if you breathe in deeply enough, you can pick up the faint odor in the air; the odor of grass, and flowers that aren't even there.

It's a promise of a beautiful day, and as she sits in her dark, compressed office, that promise is all that Penelope has. She assumes it must be wonderful outside; she doesn't know, because she's been shut inside this cubicle for hours. Outside, at the moment, symbolizes the exact opposite of what she's facing on the screens. That lovely spring day that it was meant to be, the way the sun shone overhead in the clear blue sky as she rode Esther to work that morning, is now mocking the gloom and the dark that she sits in.

It the kind of day and time that she desperately wishes she weren't alone.

The team is away in another part of the country. The team is now tiny and compact: it's only Hotch, Rossi, Reid and Morgan. Penelope knows that the section chief has been pressing Hotch to start looking for a replacement. She knows it needs to be done; they're stretched too thin.

But how can they replace Emily when a tiny part of them still refuses to believe that she's really gone?

It's been slightly better in the last few days. Morgan has returned to his desk at the bullpen area and Reid is more like himself when he's not left all alone. Rossi sometimes comes out of his office and hangs out with them; Garcia's even once seen him working on Seaver's old desk. It's a nice sight. It's a healing sight.

But the wound is still raw, and as though it's not enough that everyone's away on a case, Garcia can't even surround herself with her usual screensavers. She's never really told this to anyone, but there's another reason, other than her mastery in the cyber space, why she loves this particular job.

The images are only images.

She knows it very well that the evil she sees is painfully real, but the digitality provides a tampon between her and that brutal truth. She can't stop people from hurting each other, but she can make the images disappear with one click. She can't imagine having to walk the crime scenes, to examine the real bodies, to face the bad guy and take him down, but she can take down the mugshot of the sad excuse of a human being, and she's all too happy to do it.

For the time being, Garcia can't get rid of the images just yet. She fidgets in her seat as she tries to focus on the lists and cross-checking she's doing for Rossi, but it's strangely difficult.

It is the first of April. Penelope still measures time by the day she's given her friend to the earth.

She picks up the incoming call, and "Yes, boss," she says wearily as she listens to Hotch's instructions. Hotch thanks her before hanging up, and it puts a fleeting smile on Garcia's lips. Gone are the days when the unit chief would smile and joke and join in her banters, but he never neglects to thank her in each phone call, and there's always that kind tone in his voice when he speaks to her. It strokes a cord in her heart, and she feels for him.

She's still a bit angry that they've never really had the time to properly grieve. To come together. To help each other. Penelope knows, yes, she knows it very well, thank you very much, that her job isn't of the kind that lets her take a break when she needs it. Killers don't simultaneously decide to stop killing so that she can take the time to grieve the loss of her friend. This isn't a war; there are no temporary truces, no white flags to be hung for the sides to bury their dead.

Penelope knows it all too well, and she hates the bad guys all the more for it. Right now, as the sits in the dimly-lit, box-sized office, surrounded by horrific images, she feels like vomiting. She hasn't felt the urge to throw up in the face of what the unsubs do to their victims in years now, but this time, it is not so much the pictures of bludgened old ladies that makes her stomach rebel as it is the pure hatred in her gut for the sick person who does it.

It is when she actually recognizes this simple truth that she can't fight the urge anymore. The raw, sticky lump that's her newly devoured lunch rushes to her mouth in a flash, and she only barely manages to get a hold of the trash can before sickness overtakes her.

Oh, how she hates it all!

And someone -Morgan, probably- has the absolutely perfect timing to call.

For once, Garcia simply ignores it. She's focused too much on keeping her guts inside, at their proper place, to even register the call. As she sits hunched over the trash can, eyes squeezed shut as she waits to make sure it's safe to sit back, she's trembling all over. Her throat burns from the forcefully expelled stomach acid. The muscles of her arms are tight and sore; when she cracks open one eye, she sees her own fingers gripping the trash can so tightly that her knuckles have turned white. She breathes out, lets go of the can, and forces herself to relax.

It's surprising how easily she manages it.

It's also surprising how teardrops magically appear and start trickling down her flushed cheeks. The moment her stomach settles, she's overwhelmed by an urge to cry. The desire is as strong as it is sudden; Penelope doesn't even have the time to chastise herself before sobs begin freeing themselves out of her lips.

Soon, all she can do is to hug herself, and try to breathe as her entire body shakes violently by the force of her sudden breakdown.

Because in this tiny office room where she normally feels like Merlin, today, all she is, is alone.

/

When the team returns in the evening four days later, they all look like hell, just as Penelope knew they would. Derek, for one, looks like it's only self-preservation that keeps him from collapsing. She rushes to take the go-bag from his hand and he only half-heartedly resists. Reid is outright dragging his own go-bag, he doesn't look up at her; he only tucks his chin into his chest when Hotch squeezes his shoulder in a rare display of affection. The unit chief seems like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Garcia can swear that there are more grey streaks in Rossi's hair than there were a week ago.

That's how long it's been since they've flown to Florida for this case. Seven exact days.

It bugs them, she knows. It bugs her, too, that it's taken unusually long to catch the bad guy. It's not a wonder, but it's certainly depressing, and as they walk into the headquarters like a group of weary soliders, Emily's absence is felt all the more. It's a collective feeling by now; it's not personal. An irrational situation where it is the inexistence that hurts.

"How're you doing, baby girl?" Derek asks tiredly as he puts an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm good," Penelope lies quickly, squeezing the warm hand on her shoulder, but she's looking worriedly at Reid. He's collapsed at the nearest chair inside the bullpen, and Penelope can't help but think that he looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She can now see his face, and it frightens her.

"Reid," she calls, rushing to him. Reid slowly hunches over and takes his head into his hands. Hotch halts at a step, turns around, walks towards them.

"Reid, come on," he says in a quiet, warm voice. It seems to Penelope that he's too exhausted to even pretend that he's ordering Reid. "I'll drive you home."

Reid tries to argue, mumbling something incomprehensible, but Hotch won't take no for an answer and soon Reid has to obey. He standa up and he sways, but Hotch's there in the blink of an eye and he sneaks an arm around the younger man's waist. Garcia lets out a squeak, dropping Derek's go-bag.

"I'm all right, Garcia," Reid mutters, smiling weakly at her as he tries in vain to slip away from Hotch's support. Far from being reassured, Garcia nods.

"Come on," Hotch says, grabbing Reid's go-bag as well, and they start to walk back towards the elevator. Derek gives her shoulder a squeeze and walks away. Garcia can't look away from Reid and Hotch's retreating forms until they disappear in the elevator.

"He'll be fine," she hears Rossi say, and turns to see him standing before the glass doors. Behind the deep creases lining his face, his eyes are soft and kind. "We're all beat," he says with a tiny smile. "How are you doing, kitten?"

"I'm fine," she lies again, just as quickly as she's lied to Derek. One dark eyebrow rises sceptically, but the smile remains.

"Yeah," Rossi concedes sadly. "We're all... fine."

He nods at her, and disappears into the bullpen area. And all too soon, Penelope is left alone standing in the large hallway, and though she tries to swallow the lump in her throat and keep the moisture in her eyes in check, once again, she's at the verge of breaking down.

And then, she hears a voice inside her head.

_"Somehow,"_ it says, _"you always manage to make me smile. And I don't think I've ever thanked you for that."*_

"Oh, Emily," Penelope whispers. A single, dry sob racks her shoulders, but that is all. A hyaline smile settles on her quivering lips.

_Thank you for letting me know_._ Thank you for giving me this._

She takes a long, deep breath, and straightens her back. She's not going to keep succumbing to this lingering urge to cry whenever she sees her family struggling. She needs to be strong for them. She needs to make them smile.

Thanks to Emily, she knows that she can do it.

_I love you, Em_, she thinks gratefully as she starts walking back to her office.  
_  
__We love you._

She knows they'll be okay.

* * *

*Emily Prentiss, Episode 6x17, _Valhalla_


	7. Epilogue: The Breaking Point

_**A/N:**__ Respectfully drawing your attention to the title of the story and the first quote that starts the first chapter. Thank you to those who have kept up with this story, thank you to those who have left comments and kept me motivated, and thank you to those who will be reading and hopefully leaving some final comments on this final chapter!_

_(Have I just actually finished a chaptered story? I'm dumbfounded.:)_

* * *

**Part VII - Epilogue: The Breaking Point**

The call comes thirteen weeks after the funeral.

It's a hot day in June, one of those summer days when even the criminals seem to take a break from their heinous errands. Air-conditioners are in full-blast, and still the bullpen area is filled with huffs and puffs of endlessly sweating agents. Morgan seems to have entirely given up on trying to look like he's working. He's sitting with his feet propped up on Reid's desk, much to the latter's annoyance, because Reid is trying to make a demonstration with a tiny magnet and some dark crumbles he's identified as iron powder. Granger, their new team-member, seems hardly interested in it; she's holding a cold soda can to her dark-skinned neck as she chats with Garcia. The technical analyst looks uncommonly simple without the numerous garments on her neck and fingers; she says it's too hot to carry their burden on her skin.

Hotch absently watches the team from his office windows.

They have only just managed to heal from the loss of Prentiss. They have mourned, exhausted their grief, and they've moved on. They've found a new rhythm without her. It is a little slower, a little softer; it's still slightly shaky, but they're getting there. Everyone's shifted a bit closer to each other, because that's what happens in this team; they close ranks, and become stronger after each blow.

That is the lone source of comfort for the unit chief as he worries about the concequences of lying to them.

As his team members' pain lessened, it's become easier to look at them in the eye. After the first few weeks, he found himself going out of his way in the mornings to stop by the kitchenette and join them for a while before walking into his office. He would find them all huddled together in the bullpen, sometimes around the desks, sometimes by the coffee counter. They would stay close to each other, as though afraid to let the others out of their sight. Sticking even closer and trying not to feel the void left by their fallen friend.

Hotch would join them, and he would look them in the eye, just to make sure that they're okay, just to assure himself that they're healing alright.

They have healed alright. With time, it has become easier for Hotch to carry the burden of his secret. It frequently occurs to him that sooner or later he'll have to admit the truth to them, but he dismisses the thought quickly, not only because it's a long-practiced ability to not linger on foreboding thoughts, but also because imagining the damage it will do to his relationship with each of his team members is simply too painful.

His cell phone buzzes irritatingly on the glass surface of the desk. Hotch picks it up and answers with the much practiced "Hotchner".

_"Hey, Hotch. It's me."_

Hotch straightens his back. It is JJ's unmistakable voice on the phone, and she doesn't need to say more for Hotch to know what this is about.

This is the call he's been expecting. This is the call that will seal Prentiss's fate, and in a much different sense, that of his own.

"What's up, JJ?" he asks calmly.

The answer will be either of two things.

If Doyle is captured or killed, it means Prentiss is free to assume her own identity and return to her own life. It means he will have to tell the team the truth about her. Frankly, the prospect of revealing to them the secretly orchestrated demise of Prentiss -the scripted fate Hotch himself and a handful other people have realized- makes the unit chief want to retire from the BAU before it can come to that.

Even though it's not an escape. Even though there _is_no way out of this situation.

Even though he will carry out the task as resolutely as he always does, it doesn't mean he's not dreading it.

That he won't have to tell them the truth would only mean that Prentiss really is dead. For one brief moment as Hotch's gaze absently falls on Reid and Morgan through the blinds of his office, it occurs to him that if Prentiss were dead and he didn't know about it... that would bring a new definition to irony.

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose as he waits for JJ to speak. It hasn't been a second since he's asked what was up, although Pentagon's communication liaison is taking a long pause, like she's afraid of releasing the words from the restrain of her lips, and in that briefest of moments Hotch thinks that if JJ tells him that Prentiss is dead, it means-

No.

He doesn't even attempt to follow that trail of thought. Because even though it is the news about the death of one of his own team members - of _Emily Prentiss_, the tough, dependable woman whom Hotch has worked with for years, whom he respected, trusted, leaned on- it also means that he won't have to talk to the team, that he won't give them back the broken pieces of the trust they have placed in him, he won't have to carry this burden anymore -

_No._

As humanly selfish as the feeling is, Hotch does not let it become a thought.

He recalls a fairly recent conversation he's had with Dave. Some things are better left unsaid; the only way to acknowledge them is to keep them free from being enclasped in the restrain of words. But some things are not to be even thought; they are better not to be acknowledged at all.

Then, finally, JJ speaks. Hotch walks to the leather couch and sits down.

It is the point of no return.

/

Five minutes later, the unit chief ends the call and brings a shaking hand to his forehead, pressing two fingers on his eyelids as he leans back on the couch. That is how David Rossi finds him when he walks into the office.

"Aaron?"

There's concern in Rossi's voice as the older man calls out his friend's name. Hotch quickly brings his hand down and looks up.

"Yes?"

Rossi's eyes are watchful when he speaks slowly. "The team is talking about having drinks after work. You'd consider joining us?"

Hotch opens his mouth -barely a slit between the thin lips- and for a moment it's almost certain that he'll decline the offer. His lips move, but no words come out. Instead, an invisible muscle contracts on his brow, somewhere deep into the frown, and he swallows.

Rossi's eyes narrow even more.

"What happened?" he asks. Something has obviously happened to unsettle the unit chief, it's impossible for the seasoned profiler to not notice, but he has no idea what it could be.

Hotch pushes himself to his feet. There's the usual stoic expression on his face, but somehow, there's a sharper contrast between the dark of his hair and the paleness of his skin.

"Dave, would you gather Garcia, Morgan and Reid to the conference room, please?" he asks calmly. "There is something we need to talk about."

Rossi regards him carefully. "Sounds important."

"It is," Hotch confirms.

After watching the unit chief for another moment, Rossi inclines his head and walks out of the office to gather the team.

If he puts any stock in intuition, some little rocks are about to be pulled from under their feet.

/

Left alone in the office, Hotch allows himself one further moment of weakness as he closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.

When he opens his eyes again, he has already steeled himself against the task.

He is the master of managing his feelings; that is why he is the best man for this job. But as he walks out of the office and along the catwalk through the conference room, there are loose threads of dread and fear protruding out of that place in his heart, where he packs and constrains his emotions while he's on the job. He has had to make many different calls; there are many regretted, yet unavoidable concequences he has to live with, but this one has driven him into an impossible corner.

And yet there's not even a reluctance to his usual harsh strides, because it is the easiest part to keep up the façade.

The team is there, seated around the round table as usual when Hotch walks into the room. Rossi still wears the same usual frown over his watchful gaze. How will he react to the news?

Silently.

Morgan's eyebrows are slightly raised in relaxed anticipation. He will be mad, Hotch thinks. He will rightfully be utterly mad.

Reid is seated across from Morgan; there's a curious expression on his honest face. Hotch quickly averts his gaze from Reid, because Reid's reaction will be the one of a trusting man who's been stabbed in the back.

And Garcia, who looks both confused and curious at the same time, will be the first to openly react. In a way, Hotch thinks, she will feel a little bit of everything the others will experience all at the same time, and Hotch truly hates having to do this, having to cut into their freshly healed wounds.

"Hotch?"

He notices that he's been silent for too long when Morgan softly calls his name. He remains standing as the ring of faces watch him in anticipation.

He swallows discreetly, and he tells them that he's just gotten a phone call. A certain situation pertaining a previous case has changed, and there is something they need to be informed about.

He leans onto the table and puts his weight on his hands to find the strenght he needs, and forces the words out of his lips.

"Prentiss is not dead."

/

_"The water jug breaks on the way to the water." _

~_Turkish proverb_


End file.
